


Small Thing

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Collins’ Canonically Huge Dick, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Size Difference, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Summary: Goodsir’s hands are slick with sweat despite the chill and his cheeks burn. He lays his book in his lap, attempts to draw a deep, even breath, and fails—the inhalation eddies in lungs that can’t quite expand against the nervous pressure in his chest. He wishes he could do anything but wait, think of anything but the one he’s waiting for. He’s past late now, and Goodsir’s mortified to think that he anticipates their meeting more keenly than the other man does. His anxiety takes on an edge of hysteria, which in turn deepens the humiliation of the whole affair, and enriches its excitement. At the bottom of it, Goodsir knows, is basic adrenaline. Something of the lingering, ungovernable beast in man, but he’ll be damned if what he feels is not more comparable to what prey feels.Just as he’s begun to speculate his visitor won’t come at all, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Come,” he tries to say calmly, but it comes out low and too quick, so he says it again as the door is already opening, and finds himself unable to even face the man standing there. Collins closes the door quietly behind him and sits heavily on the bed. He’s got a soft, curious look in his eyes.“What are you reading?”
Relationships: Henry Foster Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	Small Thing

Goodsir’s hands are slick with sweat despite the chill and his cheeks burn. He lays his book in his lap, attempts to draw a deep, even breath, and fails—the inhalation eddies in lungs that can’t quite expand against the nervous pressure in his chest. He wishes he could do anything but wait, think of anything but the one he’s waiting for. He’s past late now, and Goodsir’s mortified to think that he anticipates their meeting more keenly than the other man does. His anxiety takes on an edge of hysteria, which in turn deepens the humiliation of the whole affair, and enriches its excitement. At the bottom of it, Goodsir knows, is basic adrenaline. Something of the lingering, ungovernable beast in man, but he’ll be damned if what he feels is not more comparable to what prey feels.

Just as he’s begun to speculate his visitor won’t come at all, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Come,” he tries to say calmly, but it comes out low and too quick, so he says it again as the door is already opening, and finds himself unable to even face the man standing there. Collins closes the door quietly behind him and sits heavily on the bed. He’s got a soft, curious look in his eyes. 

“What are you reading?”

“Oh,” he says. “It’s a treatise on what they call _imaginary_ numbers. It’s a number that—when x squared added to one is equal to zero, the resultant number is a non-real number _i_ , which can then…” he trails off. “I’m afraid it’s difficult to explain.”

“It’s Greek to me.”

“No,” Goodsir says, glancing down at the worn blue book. “Argand was Swiss, I believe.”

Collins tilts his head. “It’s an expression,” he says, his voice warm with amusement. “It means it’s entirely over my head.”

“Oh! I see! I am very sorry, I—am all falling to pieces, to have you here, which perhaps is something to have kept to myself, but…” he licks his lips. “I am happy,” he continues haltingly, “that you are here. Because I like you very much, and I feel I may begin to be calm in your presence, which—I am often anxious, Mr. Collins; I am often fearful and worry about things that may or may not be.”

“I understand. At least, I think I do—I’ve been, at times, prone to worry myself, though I keep it at bay with a kind of constant busyness. Idle hands and all.” He lifts his hand for a moment, flexing his fingers.

“I—yes. I prefer not to idle myself.”

Collins scoots closer and strokes Goodsir’s cheek. “Let us preoccupy one another, then.” 

Goodsir’s trembling when Collins kisses him, but gradually stills, his hand coming up to cup the back of Collins’ neck. He is aware of so many things—the hot, gentle pull of the other man’s tongue, the flushed curve of his shoulders beneath his palm as he slides his hand beneath his collar, the tide of his breath as it grows heavier, quicker.

Collins leans back. “Is this ok?” He asks, all hushed earnestness.

“Yes,” Goodsir nods. “More than. This is—I have imagined it so many times.”

Collins smirks. “Tell me more about that,” he says in a tone of soft command as his fingers work open the top button of Goodsir’s shirt. His head lolls back. 

“Christ,” he swallows. “I—it’s like this, nearly. You come to my berth, just as you have, though I have always thought it would be nice if we were somewhere I could—well, I should like to be able to cry out, if so moved. I fear keeping quiet—I mean, I fear I’ll be able to keep quiet when you, when you enter me—”

“Skipping ahead a bit, are we? I’ve got your shirt off. What occurs next?”

Goodsir flushes as he licks his lips. “Your shirt off too. You’re magnificent. I want to see it—after all, I could hardly get my eyeful at your physical, just this…” he inhales shakily. “...general impression of great strength you’ve got, of breadth, like—you’ll think it rather strange.”

“Try me,” Collins breathes, grinning as he unbuttons his shirt. 

“You—you have this strength like…” he’s silent for a moment as he gawps at the peep of dark hair beyond the buttons of Collins’ shirt. “...like you could crush me if you wished. But you’ll not do it, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Collins smirks as he squirms the rest of the way out of his shirt and tosses it on the floor. “Though if I wished to roust you about a bit—I suppose I could do so quite easily.”

Goodsir shivers. “Please,” he says. “I wish you would. As though I’m…” he licks his lips, thoughtfully silent for a moment. He loves how small he feels against him. As delicate and compact as a kitten in his muscular arms. Or something inanimate—a little sack of flour slung up onto his hip at market, a stone rolled from the mouth of the cave in a fairy story. “...as though I’m just a small little thing.”

“You _are_ just a small little thing,” Collins murmurs, “and pretty too.” Collins backs up on his knees and pulls Goodsir down flat onto his back as lightly as one pulls a knot tight. Then he swings his knee over him and presses the whole of his weight against him, iron-weight and fever-hot; Goodsir groans as he feels a tremor, half chill terror and half exultation, run through him. Then his mouth is on his chest and his fingers fumble blindly with his flies. Goodsir can feel the huff and glide of his breath against his skin like something meant, deliberate. He gives an experimental wiggle with his hips and Collins grinds back, his length digging into the juncture between his thigh and pelvis. He couldn’t push him off if he tried.

“Now what?” Collins asks as his mouth works a crooked path down his chest and torso, making him shiver and whine, and his fingers trail in the cool wake—ghosting his nipple, tracing the curve of a rib.

When Goodsir doesn’t answer swiftly enough, Collins gives his curls a little tug. Though done softly, the command inherent in this simple gesture strips him of breath for a moment. His drooling cockstand twitches. “Now—you take out your, your—you take it out and—”

“I’d hear you say it, Harry. Or is your mouth too virginal too?”

“Your cock,” Harry says softly. “I wish to see your cock.”

Collins kneels astride him to undo his flies. “That word sure sounds lovely in that mouth of yours,” he says as he draws himself out. “Maybe one day I can find out if you handle the thing itself as prettily as you handle the name of it.” 

Goodsir’s breath sticks in his throat: having felt it through fabric, and one imperfect memory of the man’s physical years before, did not prepare him for this. And the thought of putting his mouth on it—he has to remember how to breathe, has to envision the startled lungs opening. 

Collins idly tugs at himself, head cocked and gently smiling. “I just—want to take a look at you,” he says. “My small, pretty little thing. Are you certain you can take this?”

Goodsir nearly spills at the soft taunting lilt to his tone. 

“I’ll make sure you’re good and ready,” he assures him more softly. “And we’ll go as slow as you need—no matter how good your body feels to me.” He lowers his mouth again, his lips landing this time on his inner thigh. “I’ve fantasized about this moment too,” he murmurs into the lean plane of muscle there. “About working you loose with my tongue and fingers, trying to work out in my head if you’re a moaner or the quiet type, like to just huff and grunt while I’m jaw deep in your tail. I’d rather hoped, your being a virgin and all, I might could get you making all variety of noises.”

“Goodness, but you can talk too, Mr. Collins,” Goodsir says faintly, and that’s all he can say before the other man, grinning, dips his face below where Goodsir can see, raises his hips a bit on his broad shoulders—coaxing his thighs apart—and licks into the hot core of Goodsir’s body. Collins is right—Goodsir makes all manner of sounds, trying to smother each into his forearm. He can’t see what Collins is doing down there but it feels divine, ticklish and slick and warm. Beneath the pleasure, part of him is ashamed—he’d imagined men could do this kind of thing to one another, for of course it is anatomically possible, and any thing that is possible is a thing that is done. But this feels _too_ good. But in the next moment that anxiety morphs into acute lament as the tongue is withdrawn. 

“I am going to try to fit my finger in now,” Collins warns. “Brace.” And indeed, it is immediately uncomfortable, the questing burning pressure of the thing. But then his mouth is on him again, alongside his finger and an array of lewd sucking noises, Collins’ breath in harsh pants, Goodsir’s escalating moans which are sung out again into his forearm. 

“Another. How does it feel?”

“It is—all right. What you do with your mouth is… phenomenal. Far exceeds anything I’ve managed myself.”

Goodsir is strainingly hard by the time Collins is finished, a shallow parabola of pre-ejaculate between the pert arc of his cock and his belly. He’s ready to crawl out of his skin for the pleasure of it, three fingers and Collins’ tongue besides. Collins sits up on his knees again, his mouth and muttonchops glistening, and grins. He seems to loom there in the small space. “Please,” Goodsir says, near hysterical with want, “please, be inside of me.”

“It will still be very tight,” Collins warns. “I shall go slow as I can. And you shall tell me how it feels.”

“Yes. Please. Oh, goodness, please just—oh!” For the oil is a new sensation, a different kind of pleasant, on his hole as Collins rings it with his fingers one last time. Then there’s a pushing, burning bigness there, something like pain but not feared in the way pain is, as Collins is slowly, slowly presses in.

“Are you all right? Can you take it?” There’s no taunting to his tone now, and his eyes are soft with worry.

Goodsir nods, frantic for him not to stop. “Feels wonderful,” he says, and he means it. It’s not the warm, bliss, like a low, simmering climax, of his tongue, nor is it like the gasping, grasping little scraps of pleasure he’s brought himself to alone, thinking of this moment. It feels, for a moment here and a moment there, too large; he feels split by the ponderous thing. But he does not, will not, ask Collins to stop. Still, as though responding to some resisting current in Goodsir’s body, Collins stops, rests. 

“I mean it. If it’s too much—”

Goodsir shakes his head vigorously. “I feel like—like you’re tearing me asunder, like I’m wrapped around you like—like ribbon around a maypole. Isn’t that absurd? But I like it, I like this feeling very much. It is like… it is like you are making me yours.”

“Are you? Mine, I mean?”

“Yes, Henry. Christ, I am.”

With a grunt, Collins knuckles the rest of the way in and rests for a moment. Then, on the tide of an outbound breath, he begins to move. Little shallow thrusts at first, but then he builds to pulling halfway out and slamming in. Rough. Goodsir gets that feeling again of being a small thing, incidental. He wraps his thighs around Collins and holds on best he can. Sometimes he hits his prostate, such a homely name for such an extraordinary thing, for each time Collins hits home he feels a pulse of pleasure so ragged and pure it burns. A flame that jets urgently to life and shrinks away. 

“Christ, pet, you’re tight,” Collins breathes, pressing his palm to Goodsir’s temple, pushing the curls from his brow. Then he takes firm hold of Goodsir’s ignored prick and just the callused heat is nearly enough for Goodsir to spend.

“God,” he breathes, “God, oh—that’s, that’s—that’s it. Feels—beautiful. Indescribable. But—oh—I’ll not last, not with your hand on me like that—‘m gonna spend all over myself, please, please—”

Collins’ rhythm is haphazard now, reckless, and his breath comes in shallow scrapes. He loosens his grip, though, and grins. “Shall I let you? You looked so pretty last time, it’ll do me in for certain.” Something about the way he says this, earnest and intense, sends a shiver through Goodsir; something about the way he’s looking down at him, all proud and gentle and a little hazy-gazed from just the pleasure and exertion of moving inside of him—something in the way his brow knits now and he draws out, thrusts in, hitting that knot of nerves again and cursing prayerfully at Goodsir tightening around him to counter the sharp surge of sensation—“Jesus, pet, fuck,” he says—and then Goodsir can feel him stiffen, suck in his breath, then moan it out low and long as his seed surges out of him into Goodsir’s body— _Christ._ He stares up into Collins’ eyes as he spends, letting him see his face. Letting him know the wonder and praise in his gaze.

Collins can’t stay long afterwards.

“I wish I could,” he explains. “Did you know—well, never mind it now.”

They’re lying on their sides facing one another, legs entangled. They can smell one another’s breath, one another’s sweat, and it’s just fine. 

“Don’t _never mind_ me,” Goodsir says.

“I don’t like to say it. Makes me miserable to think of it out here.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I—never did wish to stay so much before.”

“When we get home,” Goodsir feels himself blurt, “I’ll make you stay. I’m yours now and I’ll keep you.”

“It’s a nice thought, anyway,” Collins says, burying his head in Goodsir’s collar. The ship rocks in the black nothing of the waters.


End file.
